


The Last Grand Exit

by rutherfords (seblaiens)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Love Triangles, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seblaiens/pseuds/rutherfords
Summary: He’s not sure how to behave. They had left on uncertain terms after standing together strongly for almost two years, trying to save Kirkwall from further decline. Him as Knight-Commander, her as Viscountess.[Mostly a story about a past Cullen/Hawke relationship. Mostly focused on Cullen and his friendships with different people to a backdrop of not-actually-a-love-triangle.]
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Hawke/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 13





	The Last Grand Exit

**Author's Note:**

> *randomly materializes out of a murder of crows with a slurpee in my hand* hey guys what’s up wanna read my dragon age fic let's ignore that I haven't posted in 3 years xoxo

Cullen's clothes are wet against his back as the evening chill settles around Skyhold, sending shivers down his back. His feet are tired and his back aches from training with his soldiers, having offered the less experienced recruits lessons in the evening so they can catch up with their experienced counterparts. Cullen regrets not having delegated the task to one his lieutenants. He hasn’t got the head for the stumbly attempts at swordplay, the way new recruits never seemed to hold their shields quite right. It’s one of his clearest memories from his Templar training in his youth, one of his teachers showing him the right angle that would protect him from melee attacks and magic spells alike. Downward, a little angled - it comes to him like second nature now.

He must have been thirteen or fourteen, holding a shield he still had to grow into. He remembers how his arms had ached the first few days after they had started training in earnest, leaving their books behind in favour of practical play. A few boys had barely been able to read their chants yet.

Catching himself reminiscing he softly shakes his head, taking off his leather gloves and rubbing over his eyes. He thought he had been tired back then - if only he had known what was yet to come. He listens to a bird call in one of the trees surrounding the courtyard, a chicken clucking as one of the kitchen maids shoos it out of her way with her feet.

“Commander?” 

Cullen looks up at the sound of the runners voice, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead. Just what he needed. “What is it?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“You are needed in the war room, at once,” the young man says, hesitating almost as if to personally apologise for having brought this message. “Sister Leliana says it's urgent.”

Cullen closes his eyes and turns his head up towards the sun, the last few rays warming his damp skin. “I’ll be there. At once”

  
  


*

  
  


The rumours are true. Hawke is at Skyhold, somehow smuggled in by Varric without anybody noticing. Cullen’s not sure if Leliana had known, but he would not put it past her - she probably saw no reason in revealing the news before Varric was ready to announce them. And if she had not known then Varric’s spies are better than Cullen gives them credit for.

Inquisitor Trevelyan tells them about Warden Loghain, having to travel to Crestwood to meet him but Cullen barely listens. He’s watching Hawke out of the corner of his eye, tracing every inch of her skin with his gaze. Pale skin, blue eyes, black hair cut short by her own hand and pointing every which way. She looks tired, with deep circles under her eyes. How long had it been since he’d seen her, barely over a year? The days seemed to race past him ever since he had left Kirkwall.

“We’ll be leaving in eight days,” Trevelyan says, then she sighs. “Never a boring minute with you people.” There are a few polite chuckles around the room but they’re all too tired to say much more. The meeting is adjourned for the night and Cullen is free to return to his tower to wash himself and go to bed, but he lingers behind as Leliana, Josephine and Trevelyan leave together, still deep in some related discussion he had blocked out. Trevelyan turns around towards him for one second before Joesphine pulls at her hand and drags her off towards a visiting noble that still demands her attention late in the night. She smiles. Cullen nods her good night.

Their voices grow quiet as they leave just him and Hawke behind.

She falls into stride with him as they slowly walk into the narrow pathway leading to Jospehine’s office, their steps echoing off the high ceiling above them. It reminds him of Kirkwall, having never seen such high ceilings in Ferelden outside of the Circle Tower. He remembers missing the cramped feeling of his parents farm house the first few weeks of his Templar training. Everything he always wanted to get away from seemed at once so dear and precious, but he had already made up his mind then, chosen his path. The Circle was strange, but Kirkwall had felt even more surreal.

“You’re unusually quiet this evening,” Hawke says, stopping in the middle of the hallway connecting the two rooms. A single torch casts soft light over them both and Cullen tries to take her in as his eyes adjust to the darkness. 

“Lost in old thoughts,” Cullen admits. _ I saw a bird and I did not even think of you. _ He stops as well, turns around to face her and clasps his hands behind his back. He’s not sure how to behave. They had left on uncertain terms after standing together strongly for almost two years, trying to save Kirkwall from further decline. Him as Knight-Commander, her as Viscountess. He had watched her be lauded as a hero at first, until tensions rose in the aftermath of the civil war and public opinion turned against her. It had become too dangerous for her, and Cullen had not been surprised when she was just gone one day. 

“Thinking of me?” She smirks and touches her hand against her chest. “I’m so touched.”

“About Templar training,” he says as he steps over and leans against the wall, the torch behind him keeping his face in the dark but illuminating Hawke’s. “Boring thoughts, sentimental musings.” There are lines around her eyes 

“Not a thought spared for poor Marian,” she shakes her head slowly. “Whatever will keep me warm at night now?”

“Let’s have some ale in my office,” Cullen proposes, surprising himself by his sudden brazenness. He missed her, thought of her fondly more often than unfavourably, and he can’t say that about many people. “I’m owed an exciting story, I insist.”

Hawke laughs and shakes her head. “Already spoken for I’m afraid, I promised Varric I’d have a drink with him in the tavern. I won’t get out of there till morning light, I presume.”

“You did always seem to spend more time in The Hanged Man than at your estate.” Cullen breathes out a weak chuckle. There were times she had drank with him until early morning hours as well. Times where they had landed in bed together, warm and tingly from the antivan wine Varric had managed to smuggle into the city after the explosion of the Chantry, when resources were limited and strictly regulated. “Tell Varric to go easy on you with the ale.”

“He would never.” 

Hawke pushes herself off the wall again and leads him out into the great hall, lifting a hood over her head and pulling it down to cover most of her face. She keeps her head lowered as they emerge. A few people are still scattered around, playing cards or sunken into their books, none of them even paying attention to the pair strolling by them. In silence they continue towards the door that leads into the library rotunda and out towards his tower, Varric already waiting in front of the fireplace for Hawke. 

There is something in his gaze Cullen can not quite pin down, and he wonders how much the dwarf knows, if Hawke had ever told him anything. He realises it is naive to believe that their secret had only been shared between the two of them.

“Good night,” he says as the halt, nodding his goodbyes to both Hawke and Varric. “It was good, seeing you.”

  
  


*

  
  


There was a time in his life where sleep had come to him naturally. He had spent long days out in the field helping his father with the harvest or caring for their animals. As the oldest boy, that had been his duty, every day, while Mia only had to help when they were short on workers or could not afford them for the season. He remembers the envy he had felt when Mia stayed in the house all day during cold, stormy or wet weather, tending to their younger siblings and playing games while he came home every evening either with cheeks red from the cold or a sunburn during summer. 

All the manual labour had meant a sound sleep every night though, and Cullen can’t recall a night in his childhood in which he had trouble slipping into blissful unawareness. Even night terrors had not plagued him back then.

During his Templar training he had perfected the art of sleep, lying on his back every night with his arms by his side, closing his eyes and drifting off in minutes. How he could ignore the noises of the many other boys that he shared quarters with is beyond him now - in Kirkwall it had already been so bad that he requested a single room after just a few months of sharing his room with Samson. Meredith had given in to his request quickly, making him her new Knight-Captain just a short while after. There had come certain privileges with the position, and Cullen is not ashamed to admit he enjoyed them while he could.

Now he has a full tower to himself, and he still can’t fall asleep. His bed is too soft, chosen by Josephine, no doubt with his wellbeing in mind. He knows he could ask someone to switch out the mattress but he doesn’t want to be a bother, cringing at the thought of thinking himself as so above everyone else as to request switching out a perfectly fine bed. 

It might just be the exercise he’s not getting after all. He spends more of his time sitting behind desks reading reports than actually training recruits these days, and he’s thankful to his forced upon role as a leader in the aftermath of the Kirkwall rebellion. A lot was learned in very short time about supply chains and relief efforts, knowledge he is now applying to their cause. Where there had been doubts before that he could fill the shoes of his role, now there is quiet determination driving all of his tasks. 

Abstaining from lyrium has made his mind less foggy, though Cullen cannot deny to himself that his restless nights are caused just as much by withdrawal. 

He huffs and turns onto his side, curling his body into a ball. His hands are cold and clammy as he wraps them around his shinds, trying to warm his fingers. They crack as they wrap around his leg, and he moves them a few times, open and closed, to get rid of the stiff feeling. 

There is soft sound being carried by the wind into his tower, laughing from people standing outside the Herald’s Rest. Even if he tried he could not make out a single voice, but still Cullen catches himself listening for Hawke’s voice. It’s unlikely she and Varric had sought refuge in the tavern though, Cullen knows - she is trying to stay low, as low as she could before inevitably making herself known to all of Skyhold. Cullen snorts at the thought, able to imagine several ridiculous situations Hawke could find herself in. 

He feels like a teenage boy as he catches himself smiling at the thought of Hawke. It’s in the past, long gone history when considering how much had happened in just a few short months since the Inquisition had been called into life by their new leader. Evelyn Trevelyan’s arrival to the scene had been unexpected, but she has proven herself a capable leader, even if Cullen did not always agree with her decisions. He’s had to grit his teeth through several discussions about the direction they wanted to take but he had always ultimately been overruled. Sometimes he wishes himself an ally in the war room, someone else who knows the Templar Order as he does. Or, at least, a  _ man _ . 

Turning on his back again, he stares up to the ceiling of his tower, eyes tracing over the beams holding together the ramshackle roof. It leaks sometime when it rains, but then again people were sleeping in tents outside Skyhold. Lest he complain. 

He could put in a word with Evelyn. She would get him on the top of the priority list, he is sure of that. She would even switch out his bed within a day, and Cullen knows that if he’d asked, she would be warming it as well.

He pushes the uncouth thought away, deep in a drawer of his mind filled with the names of women he cannot and should not have. There are several names in there, but hers is the most recent added to the list, underlined and circled, a star marking its importance. He does not want her anyway, besides fleeting thoughts when she smiles at him or touches his arm. She is beautiful and lively, but she is also cunning and stubborn. There is bound to be tension between the mage from a noble family and the farmer’s boy turned Templar. 

He had sworn off the kind after the first, then again after the second. Now here was the third.

_ Idiot boy _ , Meredith had said.  _ Just like all the others.  _ He agrees.

  
  


*

  
  


He feels like shit the next day. 

His joints ache and his armour is too heavy for him, so he foregoes it in favour of a light leather outfit. Handcrafted to his measurements, it fits perfectly in every place - his measurements had been taken as soon as Josephine had gotten him to stand still for more than one minute. Why she had put it on herself to look after him, Maker knows, but Cullen knows better than to stop her fussing. The armour fits, he needed one, and it would have taken him weeks to get it done had he been left to his own devices. So he thanks her, nods at her when they pass in the halls, and slips her desserts he cannot finish at dinner. She always makes a show of rejecting it, but he’s gotten quite used to ignoring her protests. 

Stacks of documents pile upon his desk, and Cullen asks himself when he had become so untidy. There are books strewn on the floor, openen and ear marked with passages underlined. It feels as though as soon as he finishes writing one missive, three more letters arrive that demand his attention 

“Commander.”

He looks up as Evelyn steps in through his door. It had been ajar already to let more light fall into the room, so he hadn’t heard her enter. She looks fresh-faced and tidy, dark brown curls falling into her face. She’s dressed casually for a day spent off he notices, in her linen trousers and an oversized coat and scarf, but then again so is he.

“Inquisitor,” he responds, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you had just half an hour to spare for a game of chess,” she asks, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Cullen motions to the stack of papers in front of him, then runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes hurt already from straining to read inside the dimly lit room all day, and he could use a break. “Don’t tell anybody I’m shirking my duties.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She winks. Cullen's stomach is tied in knots.

  
  


*

  
  


She is too impatient, doesn’t think ahead. He tells her as much, but she doesn’t listen. Playing chess with her is like their discussions in the warm room. The only times she wins is when she surprises him, does things no seasoned chess player would think of and throws him off his game. He’s forced to improvise, on top of trying to look out for her cheating. She is like Dorian in that way, though not nearly as graceful.

“Have you actually studied any chess theory?” he asks her as they sit in the gardens. He plays white, and he is two turns away from a check. 

“I must admit I found it rather boring,” Evelyn admits. “My oldest brother found it quite exciting though, and he tried to instill some tactic into me. Evidently, he failed.”

“Not for a lack of trying on his part, I suppose,” Cullen muses, smirking lightly. He should not say things like that, keep her at a professional distance, even though she tries to break that wall between them down at every opportunity. He cannot slip up. She laughs.

“Guilty as charged, I was always a rather poor student.”

They play two games, then Cullen excuses himself back to his tower. She pouts, but he stays strong, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he’s back in the quiet of his chambers, alone.

  
  


*

Cassandra’s sword clashes against his, the sound echoing off Skyhold’s walls and rushing through the courtyard. The Seeker is angry at Varric, Cullen knows. He had hidden Hawke from her at every turn, trying his best to save his best friend's hide. He understands both sides, though he agrees with Varric that Hawke would not have been a good fit as their leader. She is a controversial figure and allying with her would have only made their path more difficult. Trevelyan, though a Circle mage, is a less devise figurehead than an apostate.

“You must have known her well,” Cassandra asks him when they stow away the blunted swords they use for training. “Hawke, I mean. How long was she Viscountess?”

“Almost three years. She disappeared just before the Nevarran Accord was annulled.” He brushes sweat off his brows with the sleeve of his shirt. “I knew her well enough. We worked together.”

“Leading Kirkwall after the rebellion must have been a hopeless task.” Cassandra shakes her head in disbelief and Cullen sees the look of admiration she gives him. It feels wrong, being praised for saving something he had a hand in destroying. “How did you do it?”

“I was not on my own. I had a lot of help. Besides, Kirkwall still has major problems. There was no saving only… damage control.” 

“You are too modest,” Cassandra scolds.

“Didn’t you save the divine from dragons? How many were it again? Seven?”

Cassandra grunts and slaps his arm, but Cullen only laughs as he jumps out of her reach and makes his way towards the main hall. Cassandra’s friendship came with great expectations, but it was an easy friendship to maintain, maybe the most honest and mutually respectful one he had ever had. 

Now she only needs to stop pestering him with questions about Hawke.

  
  


*

Most dinners he eats alone in his room, finishing the last reports of the day by candlelight. Sometimes he works until he falls asleep at his desk, though it is never for long, and he has long given up making the climb up into his bedchambers. His body wakes up too much through the climb, and he’d lie wide awake in bed until dawn, where he’d get a few minutes of shut eye and then be woken up by the rising sun directly over his tower not much later. So he resigns himself to a restless sleep on his chair these nights, and he can already tell this will be another. There’s too much paperwork to be done to retire to bed early, having spent the day procrastinating with the Inquisitor and Cassandra, then spending hours in the war room going over the travel plans to meet Warden Loghain in Crestwood. 

His stew is lukewarm and half empty, his dessert, a pastry filled with freshly harvested fruits from their garden, yet untouched, when he is interrupted again in his work by the door to his office opening. 

Hawke steps in, her hood once again drawn over her head and hiding most of her face. Cullen is impressed that she had made it now more than a full day without all of Skyhold taking note of her - her time spent in hiding had given even her some life skills, he notes. 

“Came to save you from putting your signature under any more orders,” Hawke says, a bottle of wine clinking against two small mugs as she steps into the room. She’s still clad in a black cloth that covers her head to toe, but she once again lifts the part shrouding her head, her short, black hair sticking out in every angle imaginable. “And I believe you said I owed you a story?”

“I believe I said so, yes,” Cullen says, eyeing the supply report from the Redcliffe that’s lying in front of him. It can wait.

He looks up as Hawke pulls an armchair in front of his desk, then sets the wine and mugs down before letting herself fall back, groaning as she sinks into the fabric. She looks tired, though marginally better than him. “What a day. Nice castle you found here, just stumbled upon it?”

“Solas found it for us,” Cullen explains, “the apostate elf,” he adds, not knowing if Hawke had met most of the inner circle yet.

“Ah, Chuckles.” Hawke nods. “Seen him around. He seems… off.”

“I don’t think he’s spent much time around humans… or other people in general.”

“Can’t blame him, I’ve enjoyed my time away as well. I had a lot of time to think, being smuggled across the continent.” 

Cullen watches as she pours them two mugs of wine, pushing one into his hand before clanking their cups together. He follows her lead and takes a sip, immediately recognising the flavour as the red they used to drink together in her mansion. It’s sweeter than he’d like, but she prefers it that way. He prefers that she enjoys herself.

“Quite the disappearing act you pulled, if not even the Inquisition could find you. Cassandra even believed Varric when he told her he didn’t know where you were.”

Hawke smiles. “You know, sometimes he  _ didn’t  _ know where I was, but yes, he had a general idea. His people took care of most of it.” Hawke finishes her wine in a few more sips and pours herself another cup, then she leans back with it in her hand and puts her feet up on his desk. Cullen raises his eyebrows, eyeing where her dirty heels make contact with a report from Leliana.

“This is important work, you know,” he says, pulling the parchment out from underneath her feet. 

“It’s not that important if it’s in  _ your  _ office.” Hawke laughs, but she takes her feet off his desk to rid herself of her boots. “Better?” she asks, wiggling her socked feet at him as she crosses her ankles on top of his desk. 

“Not by much.”

“You’ll learn to live with it. Now, tell me, how did you get roped into this whole thing? Last I heard you were a pretty successful Knight-Commander in Kirkwall. If you just wanted to get out of the Free Marches, any Circle would have taken you.”

“I left the Templars for a reason.” Cullen shakes his head. “I didn’t want to be bound by them anymore.” 

“Red lyrium, nasty stuff. Lucky you they just let you go like that,” Hawke remarks. Her eyes are glued to his face, a slight smile still around her lips as she watches his strained expressions when talking about the Order. Her ears and cheeks are flushed pink and Cullen thinks she might have been drunk even before entering his tower.

“I resigned, and the next day I left with Cassandra and Leliana for Ferelden. It did not feel like a homecoming.”

“For me neither,” Hawke muses. “Hiding here is much better than hiding inside Sebastian’s bedchambers in Starkhaven, though. Spent my first few weeks there, after Kirkwall, until the situation had calmed enough for me to travel west.”

“It must have been quite a bore.”

“He offered to marry me after this whole mess blows over, actually,” Hawke exclaims, and Cullen huffs out a surprised noise. 

“Marry you?” he almost croaks.

“I told him I don’t think any mess of my life will just _ blow over _ , but he said he had faith in me.” Hawke laughs. “Maybe I’ll hit him up when I’m like… forty and unemployed. I can think of worse things in retirement than being a princess.” 

“Much worse,” Cullen agrees, eying her. He cannot imagine her being married to some noble, though he knows that would have been her life had her family stayed in Kirkwall. Freedom suited her, and he knew enough of her private life during Kirkwall to know she had never stayed with anyone for the long haul. He never tried to tie her down, never thought of them as  _ that  _ close. Their time had been enjoyable, exciting even, a welcome break from days spent in agony over feeding an entire city under rubble. “It would not suit you.”

“Damn right it wouldn’t.” Hawke sighs as she curls her feet beneath her on her chair, resting her head on the armrest. She closes her eyes for a short moment, then opens them again to focus on his own, dark blue waves washing over him as her gaze lingers. There is still tension between them, even after all this time. He guesses it will never go away, he’s seen her naked and in ecstasy so many times, seen her laugh until tears came out of her eyes and then sob in early morning hours when the world was quiet outside. 

He tears his eyes away, clears his throat. Silence hangs heavy in the air, and he feels almost suffocated by his emotions, a deep nostalgia longing for a different time. 

“So what’s your plan?” Cullen asks, not being able to stand the quiet any longer. “Any big plans after you’re done here?”

“We’ll see. Planning ahead has never worked out for me. If I need to disappear again, Isabela has already said she’d come sail by and steal me away.”

“A life on the seas,” Cullen laughs. “I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Varric said you talked his ears off about hating boats on your way back to Ferelden.” Hawke laughs, her eyes twinkling in glee. “Funny isn’t it? We’re all back here, fighting on the same side again. It’s almost as if nothing has changed, we’ve even got the wine, and I’m sure we can find a chess board.”

“Please tell me none of your friends plan to blow up a building again.”

He laughs when Hawke almost drops her cup in shock, her mouth hanging open. “And here I was,” she says, placing her free hand over her heart in mock upset, “trying to set a companionable mood, and you dare say this to me?”

“Just looking out for us all.” 

They finish their wine over stories of the inbetween, their missed parts of each other's stories. He tells her that he is writing letters to his family again, she tells him that Carver is doing well far away from Kirkwall, from the Order, from red lyrium. The topic comes up naturally and she already knows he’s not taking it anymore, and he wonders if he is really that easy to read for her or if someone in Skyhold can’t keep their mouth shut. It might just not be too far fetched of an idea, to turn away from the one thing binding you to your captor.

They might have just guessed. He’s got ideas who let it spill.

They hug when she leaves him to return to her room, her face pressed into the crook of his neck and his chin on top of her head, one arm awkwardly by his side and the other wrapped around her waist. It’s remarkably unerotic. 

“I did miss you, you big doofus.” 

“I missed you, too.”

  
  


*

  
  


Preparations for Crestwood ramp up the next few days, scouts and couriers already on their way securing the path for Hawke, the Inquisitor, and their select travel companions. Cullen catches up on his paperwork in the evenings, uninterrupted for the next few nights. He plays chess in the gardens with Dorian, manages a quick match with Leliana when Josephine runs late to a meeting one day, and even the Inquisitor steals him away one time to discuss recruits with him over a game. 

He leads her into the garden and she wraps his arm under his, and like sweethearts they walk through the halls of Skyhold. He feels awkward and unsteady next to her, who almost seems to float over the floor instead of walking, while his movements and his entwined arm feel stiff and wrong. They pass by Varric and Hawke, who has long since given up covering herself around Skyhold, and he sees Hawke watching them, then turning towards Varric with a raised eyebrow.

But they have already passed them and the great hall and Cullen doesn’t get to see or hear what Varric responds. His ears burn hot against the cold air outside, but Evelyn doesn’t seem to notice as she tells him about some Tevinter texts she had Dorian translate. 

  
  


*   
  


  
“You play chess with her as well?”

“Yes.”

Hawke gasps in mock horror. “You whore.”

Cullen laughs, watching as Hawke closes the door to his office behind her. He should have seen a confrontation about his little walk with Evelyn coming - he knew Hawke liked to gossip, and there was much talk about the nature of his relationship with the Inquisitor. Half of it fully fabricated, and the true ones greatly exaggerated, but they were hard to contain once out in the open. A Circle mage and a Templar, and illicit forbidden relationship - it fit in the times.

Evelyn had expressed her interest, not in so many words, but Cullen knows how women like her behave when they want something. She is never too far away from him, and while she riles him up in the war room there are always tender moments after where she will speak to him alone, away from the others, coy looks and sweet words. 

And the touching. A lot of touching.

“She saw me play with Dorian once, and ever since we play a few games whenever she is at Skyhold. Nothing more.”

“Mh hm.” Hawke crosses her arms and smiles at him. 

She doesn’t believe him and Cullen cannot even fault her for it - there had been moments with Evelyn where he only saved himself by coughing and turning away from her when she was close, or knowing when to keep his distance when they were all having a drink together in the evenings. She was a beautiful woman, but Cullen was a complicated man, and there are some things better left untouched.

“I have behaved nothing but professional towards her.” Cullen feels as if he’s justifying himself to her, trying to prove that he is innocent. The truth is that he had enjoyed her attention, the way she sat too close to him and whispered in his ear as others drank around them after a game of Wicked Grace in the evening. 

Hawke makes that noise again and arches her eyebrow, mustering him. He feels nailed down in his chair by her stare and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

“This isn’t because you’re jealous, right?”

Hawke laughs and shakes her head, dropping her arms and walking over to his desk. She sits down on top of it, knocking over one of his book piles, then shakes her head again. “I don’t think we were ever  _ that  _ kind of thing, don’t you?”

“I never thought so, either.” Cullen massages his temples. “Then why the interrogation?”

“Because my life kind of depends on her not wanting to kill me.” Hawke picks up one of the books and pages through it, stopping to look at some of the illustrations of plants growing in the hinterlands. “I think I  _ smoked  _ this once…” she says quietly, but then she catches herself and continues just as Cullen wants to speak up; “Right then, Trevelyan. No offense to her, she seems capable, but also a little unhinged and I’d rather not find myself on her bad side.”

“I don’t think she dislikes you. I never talked about any past relationships.”

“Great, keep it that way.” She snatches his fork and digs into a carrot cake still standing there from the night before, finishing it off in a few bites. He had forgotten to bring it to Josephine and by the time he had remembered the sun had gone down and he had felt uncomfortable still rousing her for just cake. “So what’s the whole story?”

“Of what? The Inquisitor and me? There is nothing to tell. She leads, I follow.

“Right.”

“Go on now,” Cullen says, leaning forwards in his chair to push Hawke off his desk. “I’ve got work to do.” 

  
  


*

  
  


They’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow, their scouts sending message of easy, if very wet, travels east towards Crestwood. Cullen faintly remembers having been to Crestwood during his short stay at Kinloch Hold, but he has heard reports of the whole city having been rebuilt after the blight. Nothing there would look as he’d remember it. He wonders what had become of Honnleath, if any of the residents had stayed behind and tried to rebuild their lives where they had been since birth. Most had left, his siblings further east to South Reach. If his parents had ever gotten a proper burial, he doesn’t know. Mia’s letters had not only gone unanswered, but also unopened.

The letter in his hand is slightly crumpled, sweat from his hands smudging the words he had traced just a moment ago with his finger.

_ It's a fool's errand asking you to stay safe, but please try. _

_ Your loving sister, (see how easy this is?) _

  
  


He bites his cheek to keep from smiling like a fool, sitting with Dorian on the Tevinter’s quarter’s balcony overlooking the Frostback Mountains. There must have been some strings pulled for him to get a view like this, he muses. Inquisitor strings, the same that had gotten Vivienne quite a similar suit. He wonders what he’d get if he’d just ask.

“What’s gotten you in such a good mood?” Dorian asks, taking a sip off his freshly ground coffee imported directly from Rivain. “You’re normally so dull and broody.”

“A letter from my sister,” Cullen replies, ignoring the insult. “Telling me to stay safe. I don’t think she understands the severity of the situation.” 

“The foot folk seldom does.” Dorian hums. “I myself dread letters from home. Always drama, drama, drama.”

“Good that my family is foot folk then, we just eat turnips and praise the king.”

“Ah, to be a peasant not even aware of what’s going out there.” Dorian grins and stares out into the horizon, watching a bird in the distance disappearing from their view. The sun is still rising to the east, morning chill hanging wet in the air but spring is in full swing by now, animals and plants alike awakened to new life around them. Skyhold is full of life, and they’re growing stronger in numbers every day.

“I think you have a romanticised view of commoner living,” Cullen says, setting the letter back down on the table in front of them, resting his cup on it so the wind wouldn’t take it. “There is a reason so many of them are here, and not out there.”

“The grass once again being greener on the other side, I’d say. But I wouldn’t want to miss my fancy orlesian creams, they smell quite charming.”

Cullen laughs, shakes his head at the strange mage. Their friendship had started entirely on the behest of the other man, but Cullen had been surprised how easily they had fallen into a routine of keeping in touch with each other. Their weekly breakfasts also had the added bonus of a fine selection of delicacies from all over Thedas, courtesy of Dorian’s good taste and deep pockets.

“You are not travelling to Crestwood, are you?” He changes the topic.

“No.” Dorian sighs and closes his eyes, warming his face in the warm sun streams that fall onto the balcony. “Three mages is a crowd, I’m afraid. A shame, really. I was so looking forward to camping out in the rain.”

“You could help me out with training the mage recruits. They’d probably appreciate the insight and you have a... particular set of knowledge.” 

“And here I was, thinking this would be the first day I wouldn’t be accused of blood magic.” Dorian sighs dramatically and turns his head towards Cullen. “From you of all people, Commander. I thought we had put the whole mage Templar thing behind us.”

“I wasn’t talking about blood magic, and I wouldn’t ask you to teach that to our soldiers. Besides,” he adds, “I’m not a Templar anymore.”

“A free man, escaped from the stifling grasp of the southern Chantry. Maybe we’re not so different after all.”

“I’m certainly enjoying this coffee in my newfound freedom,” Cullen remarks, looking into the dark liquid in his cup. “I’ve never had it before, being a peasant and all.”   
  
Dorian laughs loudly. “Dear Commander, I do hope you didn’t find offense in my words. I do believe fereldan men can be quite charming in the right circumstances.”

“And you Vints aren’t that all that bad after all,” Cullen teases back, an easy smile on his lips. 

“I get the feeling our dearest Inquisitor is quite taken by the southern charm as well.” Dorian’s eyes glint as he searches Cullen’s face for a reaction, grinning when he gets it in the form of a deathly glare.

“I’m not in the mood to talk about false rumours of my private life. Evelyn is my boss and a friend, if one can call it that.”

“I’m sure she would be devastated to hear that.”

“Why don’t we just not tell her then,” Cullen suggests, raising his eyebrows. He knows the two mages are close, has seen them sticking their heads together and giggle behind their staffs often enough to know Dorian must be one of her closest friends in the inner circle. How loose Dorian’s tongue sits in regards to their private conversation, Cullen is not yet quite sure.

“My lips are sealed tighter than the Skyhold wine cellars, don’t fret.”

He’ll believe it when he sees it.

  
  


*

The horses in the stables are restless that evening, feeling the anticipation of travel in the air. Supplies are already gathered in bags and placed here for easy access tomorrow morning, when the Inquisitor would ride out with Hawke, Varric, Cassandra and Blackwall. Their respective horses had already been properly checked and cleaned for the journey, but Cullen wasn’t here for them, instead walking straight to one of the last stalls.

A hopeless case, Dennet had called the mare, injured from the attack on Haven and the long journey after, but the man had not brought it over himself to kill the horse. She could no longer be ridden, but she seemed happy enough running on the meadow outside the castle’s walls. He had been the last to ride on her on their journey towards the conclave.

Black eyes blick up at him as he leans on the half wall of the stable, holding out his hand. She neighs softly and then nudges her head against his hand as a greeting.

“Looking after your favourite girl”

Cullen looks up and sees Evelyn at the entrance, putting down another bag with the others.

“Making sure she doesn’t feel left out now that she doesn’t get to ride out anymore,” Cullen says, chuckling. 

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind getting to have all the fun running around and not having to ride into battle,” Evelyn says, walking down the hallway and stopping beside him to look inside the stable box. “She is pretty, a hardy fereldan breed.”

“You know horses?” he asks, impressed and surprised.

“Despite Ostwick being close to the sea, my family has always preferred horses to ships,” she explains, reaching out to stroke over the horses poll. “We supplied much of the Free Marches with our breeds.” 

“My family had two horses when I was a young boy,” Cullen says. “One was old and stubborn, the other young and wild. Not as lovely, and definitely not as much of a joy to ride as she has been.”

“It’s a shame,” Evelyn agrees, pulling back her arm and brushing against Cullen’s in the process. He moves slightly, clears his throat, but she stays close to him.

“I wish you all the best for Crestwood,” he says to break the tension that is once again building up with the silence between them. “Remember to keep your socks dry that, uh, is the most important thing during weather like they’ll have… over there...” His ears burn.  _ Sock advice _

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Evelyn grins, brushing her long dark hair behind her ears. “Though the most important thing might be to keep Cassandra from killing Varric.”

“True, that would be quite vital. You think it a good idea to take them both with you?”

“They have to work through their differences eventually. I’m just… speeding up the process. Hawke will be there to defend him should blood lust overcome Cassandra at any point.”

“Better to fight it head on than let it simmer. I like your approach.”

“Why thank you,” she says in a teasing tone. “Don’t hear praise for my actions from you very often.” She looks up at him, though she is not much shorter than he is. A bit more than half a head, she is tall for a woman, though Cassandra and Vivienne still tower over her. Her green eyes look mischievous as she dares him to respond.

“I don’t want you to think I’m disagreeable, I apologise if it has seemed like that. I’m just looking out for what's best for the Inquisition.” 

It’s true that they’ve agreed on few things in the months spent working together, but he’d always given his best following out his orders, even if his advice had often fallen on deaf ears. In Kirkwall he had got to know the dark side of unwavering loyalty, his head stuck too deep in the sand to see what was really going on in front of him. He would like to think of himself as a man who does not repeat the same mistake twice.

Evelyn waves him off. “You’ve given me less of a headache than Sera has with her requests. Besides, I value your opinion. You know as much as me what’s at stake here, not just with Corypheus, but also the Circles.”

“You were quick to accept your moniker, Herald,” Cullen notes. “Do you believe you are the Maker’s Chosen even when it’s just us two here?”

She looks at him for a long time, silence stretching between them. He might have overstepped his boundaries, but she has always seemed receptive to his more personal questions. There is leverage he had not tried his luck on before, and he wonders if Evelyn would be honest with him.

“I believe in the Maker,” she says after a while, turning her face towards the mare in front of them again. “I dare not question his decisions.”

Cullen scans her side profile, notes the way her jaw is set and her brows are ever so slightly furrowed. An evasive answer meant to disguise the truth, a disappointing excuse. He sighs quietly.

“I believe there is a reason for you to be here,” he offers her in response. “I prayed for a miracle ater the explosion at the conclave, and out of the rubble stepped a young woman who could manipulate the veil around us, allowing us to seal a breach that threatened to swallow all of Thedas.”

“You make it sound quite heroic,” Evelyn’s face softens, then she turns towards the stable doors. “Lead me back upstairs?”   


“It would be my pleasure, Lady Trevelyan.” 

He offers her his arm.

  
  


*

  
  


“I once again come to your chambers to annoy you,” Hawke calls out but Cullen doesn’t even look up from the letter on his desk. He’s writing back to Mia, wanting to send out the letter with the few scouts that would be leaving with the Inquisitor tomorrow. He owed her as much.

“Just finishing up here,” he says as he puts his name on the bottom of the page, then sets the parchments away to dry. “Please try to not sit on this.”

“I will do my best.” 

The door falls shut behind her and Cullen takes her in, dressed up in soft but warm attire fitting for curling up in front of a fire. There’s two bottles of ale in her hand this time, and her blue eyes blink mischievously as she spots him eying it.

“I should have probably bought one for you, too, shouldn’t I?” She makes a show of scratching through her hair and turning back towards the door.

“Don’t be a pain.”

“But I  _ love  _ to inconvenience you.”

Cullen grins and holds his hand out and Hawke relents, crossing the distance to his desk and handing over a bottle.

“You shouldn’t be drinking the night before heading out,” he lectures her, taking a swig of the bitter liquid. 

“Might I remind you of the many times we spent in Kirkwall together, drinking us to the bottom of a barrel? You’re as guilty as me. Besides, I’ve got loads of experience fighting drunk, how do you think I survived all this shit?”

“Mostly incredible luck and good connections.” He points the armchair on the opposite side of the desk from his, Hawke still standing there with the front of her thighs pressing against his desk. “What’s on your mind, what can I do for you?”

“Just came to say goodbye.” She keeps standing, looking down at him, scratching her nails over the bottle in her hands as she bites her lip. “I thought I owed you that, after last time.”

“I don’t think you owe me anything, Marian.”

She smiles and closes her eyes. “I’ll probably be back anyway, with Loghain in tow. How many important people do you think we can fit under one roof before they all start killing each other?”

“I’m sure Josephine can make space for quite a few more.”

“She is crafty like that,” Hawke agrees, setting down her bottle on the corner of Cullen’s desk, careful not to disturb anything this time. Then she comes around to him, crosses the invisible barrier of his desk between them and sits down on top of it, her feet hanging down between Cullen’s thighs. “That’s not the only reason I’m here, though, I admit.”

“Yes?” Cullen asks and his mouth runs dry. She’s so close like that, and it's a position in which they’ve found themselves before, ink stained hands of the past reaching out towards each other in the dim light of a beeswax candle. He grabs the armrests of his chair tighter, plants his feet on the ground as if they were made of stone.

“This has never quite been this hard before, has it?” Hawke asks, the uncertainty in her voice accompanied by a nervous chuckle.

“We used to drink the ale before this part,” Cullen states, staring down at the ground in front of his feet as he takes another long gulp. 

“We weren’t  _ always  _ drunk when we did it! You make me sound like an alcoholic.” Hawke pouts and crosses her arms. “I enjoy a good drink, who can fault me for that.”

Cullen leans forward and strokes her thigh in reconciliation, setting away his ale next to Hawke’s before leaning back in his chair, sliding his legs forwards so they’re touching hers. She uncrosses her arms again, then leans forward until her hands rest on his chair, her face now mere inches from his.

“We just have to keep this quiet,” Cullen reminds her, his heart beating in his chest as Hawke raises her knee to rest on the seat between his legs, pressed against his crotch. “No word to anyone, and that includes Varric.” 

Hawke nods softly before closing the gap between them, pressing her lips against his softly. Cullen raises his arms to hold her waist, pulling her down on top of him but the chair is too small, too uncomfortable to really hold her. Their lips part as he pushes her back against the desk, standing up between her legs and grabbing them to wrap around his waist.

“Won’t someone think of the important paperwork,” Hawke says, and Cullen huffs out a laugh.

“Let’s go upstairs.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

They end up naked before they even reach the bed, their limbs tangled in the sheets and within each others, his hot breath between her thighs like so many times before. He still knows her taste, her smell, the noises she makes, and falling back into her feels like a soft comfort, as if time stood still for a moment for him to gather his thoughts.

Not much on her has changed, though the softness around her belly is gone and replaced by a valley between the mountains of her hip bones. Her breasts are still small, less than his full hand he remembers, and there are little scars strewn all over, some he remembers, some new added to her ever growing collection.

He takes her with her on her front, like so many times before, his arm slung around her body where he strokes over her clit, trying his hardest to not end this all too soon. There had been only one woman after Hawke, a momentary distraction he sought out on a whim, and he had never felt the need to relieve himself much on his own. When her moans become louder and wanton, he stops fretting and trails kisses down her neck.

He finishes on her back like so many times before, wiping her off wordlessly with a rag from one of his chests. She’s sprawled out on her belly, her eyes closed but the corners of her mouth are turned upwards in a slight smile, and Cullen runs his fingers lightly up her back. She sighs at his touch, burning her head deeper into the pillows.

“You lost weight.” Cullen notes, his hands stopping at her shoulder blades.

“Been on the run. Sometimes, literally running.” She sits up on her elbows and looks back at him still on his knees behind her on the bed. She eyes his chest, then her eyes dart down to his crotch, before she looks back up at his face. “I distinctly remember more muscle mass on you as well.”

“Yes, well,” Cullen sighs and lies down next to her, pulling the covers over them, “I sit on my desk and write letters all day. Not a lot of abominations or demons running around in Skyhold.”

“Kirkwall was a different breed of crazy,” Hawke agrees, turning on her front and crossing her ankle over Cullen’s under the duvet. “Who’s in charge now that you had the wits to get out?”

“Seneschal Bran,” Cullen chuckles. “Provisional Viscount, last I heard. He’s tried to get the nobles to agree on a new leader, but talks have been fruitless until now.” He can imagine Seneschal Bran still cursing him in the halls of the keep, like he had when Cullen told him he’d be leaving with Cassandra. Choice words had been spoken on both sides, and Cullen distinctly remembers vowing to never set foot into that cursed city again after Bran had dismissed him from his office.

“That city is never going to be rebuilt.” Hawke shakes her head. “None of the nobles in Kirkwall want to lead, all they want to do is gamble and drink. You remember how long it took for the Blooming Rose to be rebuilt? I don’t think the dust had fully settled yet.”

“Aveline keeps them in check. We actually also got word from Sebastian, he sent further aid to Kirkwall,” Cullen continues, “he kept your secret and never mentioned you.”

“The little prince is doing well for himself. I reckon he’ll be married with an heir on the way before I could even get back to Starkhaven.”

“It’s in his best interest,” he agrees. A yawn escapes him and his neck cracks as he stretches, bone deep exhaustion seeping into him. Her presence next to him as a welcome one, warm and comfortable, but he knows he won’t sleep better even if she could stay. There had been nights he’s made her flee because of his tossing and turning before, and the nightmares have only gotten worse without lyrium. “You should be getting back to your room.”

“Throwing me out of your tower?” Hawke says, uncrossing their feet, cold toes pressing against his calf for a second. “How chivalrous.”

“You have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” Hawke sighs and gets out of bed, searching her discarded clothing on the floor, shivering when her naked body comes in contact with the cold air again. When she is finished tying off her boots she steps back next to him, leaning down for a quick kiss on his forehead. “Sleep tight, dream of me.” She laughs when he rolls his eyes, then makes her exit down the ladder and out of his tower.

He does dream of her that night, though not in the way she hoped. When he wakes up come morning he only remembers her face, an expression locked in agony as she cries out to him to help her out from below him, a metal grate in the floor locking her away, and the rain is falling. Water is rising, already at her neck, and her fingers try desperately to push away the covering, but it’s too heavy for her, she can’t stand in the hole she is locked in. There is a lock without a key, and Cullen has no way to break it off.

“Marian,” he says, the words not coming out right of his mouth, feelings as though he is under water already as well. 

  
  


*

  
  


The sun is not even fully up yet, but he’s already preparing the horses with Blackwall, a last check over supplies and if the weight inside their bags is distributed evenly. The ride down from Skyhold is hard on the horses, and they have to make sure everything fits perfectly for the journey ahead.

“Should be fine,” Blackwall says after they check over every fastened buckle again. “They’re fine horses.”

“Dennet is supposed to be the best in Ferelden,” Cullen explains, stroking over the black horse's neck that Hawke had claimed for herself. “Though I don’t know how much that means to foreigners anymore, with the state of the country.” 

Blackwall laughs quietly. “Your countrymen are strong and hardy. They’ve survived a blight before, and they can stand whatever comes next.”

“Barely survived a blight,” Cullen mumbles, stepping away and next to Blackwall to the well in the centre of the courtyard. He splashes cold water from a bucket into his face, washing his hands clean from the dust and hair of the horses. There is not much on his agenda today, the days before having ramped up to this moment, and he’d try to squeeze in some drills with the recruits today. Iron Bull and the Chargers had expressed interest in helping them train, and Cullen is glad for every help he could get in shaping the young men and women into an army.

“How do you feel about this Loghain fellow?” Blackwall asks, genuine interest in his voice. “I heard he is quite a controversial figure in the fereldan history books.”

“He betrayed King Cailan at Ostagar, that’s the most I know about it,” Cullen says. “I spent most of the time during the Blight away from it all. I don’t have any interesting first hand accounts, though-” he stops himself. 

“Hm?” Blackwall looks up.

“Nothing, just- Hawke was there, when at Ostagar and when Lothering fell. Though it is probably best not to bring it up, her sister-”

“Got it.” Blackwall nods solemnly. “Nasty stuff, war. Tearing families apart all over Thedas.”

Cullen agrees, staring out at the staircase where more and more people are leaving the walls of Skyhold, among them the rest of the group that was set out to leave today. He could see Evelyn in her new light armour, a shawl with the banner of the Inquisition around her neck and her staff in her hand. Hawke is beside her, wearing her champion armour beneath a thick black coat. They’re talking, and Cullen can’t shake the uneasy worry that it could be something related to him.

Evelyn greets him with a smile, and he helps her fasten the last supplies in place before fetching a stool so she could get on the horse easier. It had been meant for Varric initially, but had been misappropriated by all of them at one point another to help them up while in heavy armour.

“Thank you.” Evelyn smiles down at him, the sun behind her head illuminating her and bringing out hidden highlights of her braided hair, scarlet shimmers on dark brunette. Cullen nods and manages a pained imitation of a smile, touching her knee fleetingly before stepping away. He turns his head towards Hawke, who is already on her black stallion, once again slipping the hood over her head in place. She nods at him as their group starts moving towards the gate out of Skyhold, and he raises his hand in a silent farewell. 

He stands there until the gate closes again, lost in his thoughts though not remembering what they were once he snaps out of them. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath in before turning around and climbing up the stairs towards the keep.

  
  


*

  
  


The first report arrives three days in, the Inquisitor complaining about a torrential downpour that rivaled the sometimes volatile climate on the costs of the Waking Sea. They have just arrived in Crestwood and are drying their supplies in a house provided by the town's mayor before setting out again. She describes seeing the Circle tower on the other side of Lake Calenhad, a ruin in the distance, destroyed during the rebellion and abandoned ever since. Cullen realises with surprise that he doesn’t care, one way or another.

He spends his time split up between his troops, Leliana and Josephine, and the odd chess game with Dorian, who is bored out of his mind being left back at Skyhold without his best friend. Cullen wants to remark that Dorian can’t be  _ that  _ bored when he sees dark love bites on the neck of the mage one morning during breakfast, but he holds his tongue out of respect for the privacy of Dorian and whomever he had chosen to spend his time with. Rumours spread too quick here, he knows from first hand.

Josephine tries to give him dance lessons in preparation for the ball at the Winter Palace in the meantime, and she is stunned when she finds out that he has never received dance lessons before in his life. 

“We might as well start at the very beginning,” she frets, massaging her Temple, and he spends about two hours stepping on her toes and forgetting when to twirl before they give up, sharing a glass of wine and a box of orlesian chocolates instead. 

“I won’t have to actually dance when we are there, right?” Cullen asks. “I can just stand in the corner and be agreeable?”

“It is probably for the best,” Josephine agrees, massaging one of her toes. “You are not supposed to sweep the orlesian ladies off their feet by kicking their shins.”

“I get the sinking feeling I’m only here to hit things and look pretty.”

Josephine laughs, a twinkle in her eyes. “There is a certain subset of ladies who would love nothing more than for you to step on their toes, I can confirm. Unfortunately for us both, I am not one of them.” 

“Do me a favour and spread the rumour that I am happily married already with a child on the way, waiting for me somewhere in Ferelden.”

“No can do, Commander, we might still be able to use your bachelor status as a pawn.”

Cullen sighs, staring out into the Frostback Mountains again, like he always does when stuck between thoughts. He considers Josephine a friend, but he knows that, once again, Evelyn was much closer to her than Cullen himself was. They moved in the same Circles, preferring to spend time with the same people. He could neither air his thoughts about her, nor Hawke here.

Josephine picks up on his changed mood. “Or is there someone? Should I make sure no one bothers you anymore? I’m sure I can put in a word and-”

“No, no, there is no one.” Cullen waves her off. “I’m married to my work, anyway, I wouldn’t have time for anyone I’d be… theoretically interested in.”

Josephine’s expression softens as she musters him, and he can’t help his cheeks from warming up when he thinks of Hawke, some almost gone out fire in his heart that had been rekindled the first time she had barged through his office doors here at Skyhold. Though he knows Josephine must believe he is thinking about the Inquisitor, her interest in him laid bare open and honest, though not in so many words. He wonders how long he can further pretend to not notice it.

“You know, you would not be the only one of the inner circle sneaking around at night. Nobody would care, even if some information would come to the light of day.”

“I prefer to keep my private life so,” Cullen shakes his head. “Besides, there really is not anyone to write home about.

Josephine nods and lets the topic rest.

  
  


*

  
  


He spends time with his officers, going over training routines and making sure the soldiers are warm, happy and fed. Keeping morale up is crucial in times like these he knows, having seen how little broken men could accomplish after the destruction of Kirkwall. Reconstruction efforts had been like pulling teeth, nobody willing to work on something that had already been deemed lost. What he sees makes him hopeful, laughing faces in the camp and participation in the drills without much complaint. He’s proud of what has been done here, and he makes a mental note to find extra compensation for his subordinates who have taken over most of his duties related to general upkeep.

At night, the dreams come and go, visions of past events mixing with the uncertainty of the future. He dreams of red lyrium in Kinloch Hold, a horned demon keeping him chained to the ground. During the day, he tries not to dwell on them.

  
  


*

It takes less than a fortnight for the group to return, Warden Loghain on tow. Cullen has never seen the man’s face before, the tall tales he has heard measuring up against the image of a man with greying hair and a tired face in front of him. The Inquisitor is unusually quiet and tense as she explains their plans to travel further west, and Cullen prepares Rylen the same day for his new posting in the Western Approach, having no time to lose. 

“I swear, never in my life have I seen rain like this,” Hawke explains as they’re sitting in front of the fireplace in the hall of Skyhold, playing a lazy round of Wicked Grace with Varric. “I still feel all damp in places.”

“That was no normal rain, that was demon rain,” Varric agrees, a shudder overtaking him. “How Loghain could sit day in day out in that damp cave and not go insane, I’ll never understand.”

“Probably beats souring in a Warden prison,” Cullen offers, folding his hand. “I imagine there was nothing better waiting for him.”

“I didn’t think I would ever say this, but man, am I glad when I get to go back to Kirkwall,” Varric grumbles as the last cards are dealt and Hawke wins the pot. 

“Thank you, boys,” she says gleefully as she scoops the few coppers in the middle of the table into a coin purse, shaking it to make the metal clinker. “I, myself, cannot wait to fall asleep in a bed instead of in a tent tonight.”

Varric laughs and agrees. “Especially because I don’t have to listen to your snoring anymore!”

“You don’t snore,” Cullen says, shaking his head, looking up when he hears Hawke stifled laughter. Varric is looking at him with raised eyebrows, then back at Hawke, who has her face hidden behind her hands, trying to keep herself from bellowing out. “N-not that I’d know that,” he adds, realisation dawning on him. He sighs, preferring to stare down at the table instead of either Hawke or Varric. So he hadn’t known yet.

“Well, that is more information that I ever needed,” Varric says after a while, collecting the cards on the table and stacking them neatly again. “I am impressed that two bumbling idiots like you could keep this quiet for so long.”

“It’s nothing, I meant-” Cullen attempts to explain, but then Hawke is laughing out loud, echoing down the hall as a lone tear escapes her eye. 

“You traitor! I thought we were meant to be,” she presses out between bouts of laughter, almost falling off her bench. Cullen’s face flushes warm with blood as he looks around, but it seems nobody is paying them any more attention than usual when Hawke screams during a game of cards.

“Alright, alright,” Varric says, raising his hands to soothe them both, “I get it, I’m not gonna pretend to be outraged because of two people making the best out of a shitty situation.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Cullen says, clearing his throat and watching Hawke as she wipes the tears from her eyes and fans air to her face with her hand, her cheeks flushed pink just as much as his. He decides that he’s embarrassed himself enough for one night and bids his farewells, leaving the two old friends to themselves and turning in for the night. He stops in his tracks and turns around when he hears his name called behind him.

“Inquisitor,” he greets Evelyn, noting her still damp hair. She must have just gotten out of a bath draw for her in her quarters. “What can I do for you?”

“A talk in my quarters?”

“As you wish.” 

He can feel two sets of eyes follow him down the hallway.

  
  


*

Her quarters are grand, almost too lavish for his taste. Floor to ceiling windows let in the evening sun as it sets, bathing the room in a warm orange glow. There is a still steaming tub of water in an adjacent room and the air hangs heavy with perfume and hot steam, though it is not overpowering. 

“I’m sorry for stealing you away, but it seemed you were quite finished with Hawke and Varric.”

“I was, and it is no problem, we were just catching up.”

“You two seemed close, you and Hawke,” Evelyn says, sitting down on a couch near the stairs leading up into her room. “I’d say she talks to you almost as much as Varric.”

“We worked together in Kirkwall. I’ve… known her for almost ten years.”

“You know, there is some common Tevinter ancestor that connects the Amell’s and the Trevelyan’s,” Evelyn continues, as if she didn’t even hear him. “I’ve only found out about it recently when Dorian showed me an old translated family tree. All traces back to a family that also has relations with the Pavus’ and Pentaghast’s.”

“Ah,” Cullen nods.  _ Great _ .

“I believe this is the reason for the disproportionate amount of mages in our families,” she continues, crossing her legs and sinking back into the cushions. “Cassandra’s brother, Revka’s Amell’s children, Hawke, me. It seems it was a rather powerful lineage, after all.”

“Let’s hope you didn’t trace it back far enough to land at one of seven peculiar magisters.” Cullen tries to joke, though his chuckle seems forced. He clears his throat, then continues; “Is that what you wanted to talk about? I’m afraid I cannot be much help on the topic of bloodlines.”

“Of course not,” Evelyn shakes her head, then pats the seat next to her on the couch. Cullen reluctantly sits down, trying to keep as much space between them, but not too much as to not insult her. 

“When I was in Crestwood,” Evelyn continues, closing her eyes to recall the events, “we found out about the mayor flooding the town during the Fifth Blight.”

“I’ve read the reports,” Cullen nods. “An unfortunate event, though I see where he was coming from.”

“Sacrifice the few to save the many, yes,” Evelyn says dryly, stroking her hand through her hair. “We cannot let it go unpunished.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he admits, avoiding her gaze. “We can probably find him and bring him into custody until you arrive back from the Western Approach.”

“Thank you.”

He looks up at her smiling face when she puts his hand on his thigh, a short touch for just a second. She is stunningly beautiful, scarily so, and his breath hitches in his throat when she moves her hand to his shoulder, squeezing his arm.

“Is there anything else you need of me?” he asks, wondering why she brought him up here instead of just telling him during the next meeting at the war table. She looks at him as if she expects something of him, her lips slightly parted as her green eyes search intently for something in his amber ones.

“I was wondering if you were still up for a game of chess,” she says after a while, though Cullen can feel this is not the true reason for his presence here. He feels out of his element, plucked from the safety of his tower and his books. He’s floundering here, in uncharted territory, and he hates being uncertain of what to do.

“I- I am actually quite tired,” he says, and Evelyn pulls her arm back at once, coldness where her hands hard warmed him just seconds before. “How about tomorrow afternoon? I’m sure I could squeeze half an hour in.”

“Of course,” Evelyn says, one of her fake smiles mostly reserved for the nobles on her lips. “I will find you.

  
  


*

  
  


He wakes up in the middle of the night to the door to his office below opening, his pulse quickening as his mind slowly realises that this is real, and not just another dream. Adrenaline shoots through his veins as he positions himself so that he can reach the dagger on his nightstand, a longstanding sleeping companion ever since Kirkwall.

He lowers the dagger when he hears a muffled curse after a loud bang, Hawke yelling out in pain on the floor below him.

“What are you doing down there?” he asks, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

“It’s dark!”

“Aren’t you a mage? Make some light,” he huffs out, letting himself fall back into his mattress and pulling the sheets over his head. He listens as Hawke climbs up the ladder to his room, panting when she reaches the upper floor. 

“Why am I always the one having to come to you? I liked it better when you would just show up at my house uninvited.”

“We worked together, I was there every day, for  _ work _ ,” he grumbles, barely audible from beneath the duvet. Hawke’s shoes fall on the floor with a soft thump, then he hears her belt buckle clicking, her trousers and shirt following soon after. She slips into bed behind him, pressing her chest against his back, only his thin shirt separating their skin. “What do you want?”

“I was cold and lonely in my own bed, I was hoping you too.”

“I was sleeping.”

Hawke huffs behind him, reaching around his body to lay her cold hands on his stomach. Cullen winces, grabbing her wrists and pulling them away from him. “Are you drunk again?”

“Not more than usual.” Hawke shrugs but pulls her hands back when Cullen turns around so they’re facing each other. “If you don’t want a repeat performance, you can just say so, I’ll leave.”

“Stay,” Cullen sighs. He’s not in a good mood, never was when interrupted like this, and Hawke knows that. Still, he cradles her in his arms, burying his nose in her neck and breathing in her scent.

“I’ll be gone again soon enough, you’ll see.”

Their lips find each other in the dark, Cullen’s still tired body slowly awakening to the sensation of her soft, warm body next to him. His fingers travels down her back and to her ass, grabbing it before he pulls his hand to her front to grab between her legs. His blood rushes to his groin and he pushes her on her back, a soft gasp of surprise escaping Hawke’s mouth.

“Isn’t this why you come here?” he whispers in her ear.

“I mostly just do it to annoy you,” she mumbles back, but her breath is hitched and Cullen can feel her heartbeat against his. 

“I don’t believe you.”

  
  


*

  
  


There are two women he’s watching, and three on his mind. When he thinks of one he feels dread, he fears for one and fears the other. They walk the endless hallways of his mind, visit him in his dreams though only one had ever been invited. Evenlyn has found her way in without his doing, and he tries to not remember Solona’s name or face when he mustn’t. 

Evelyn seeks him out on the battlements and in the garden, she stands close to him and holds onto his arm when walking down stairs. She appears in his office almost as often as Hawke, and he catches himself worrying that they will cross paths there in the last few days he has to keep the illusion up for her. What illusion, he wants to ask himself, as if he hasn’t admitted to himself that he’s leading her on, keeping her interest just enough so she will still be there once Hawke leaves. He feels like a monster when he catches himself fantasizing about the both of them, and he prays for forgiveness in the Chantry the following day. 

He’s spent his entire life in the repressing grasp of the Chantry, and here he is, thirty and unmarried, pining after mages who would have been his charges in another life. He wonders if he had been demon touched from birth, or if Uldred had marked him as such, but he can pinpoint the start of his downfall to a glance from Solona Amell across a library on his first day in Kinloch Hold.

If he is being honest with himself he can pinpoint it to eighteen years ago, when he saw a group of Templars in the Chantry of Honnleath, their impressive armour and big swords nothing like he’d ever seen before. He wonders what would have become of him if it had been a group of Chevaliers or Grey Warden’s instead.

  
  


*

  
  


“You are not focused,” Cassandra bellows out, raising her dulled blade to start another attack on Cullen. He is, in fact, not focused, his mind racing a mile a minute as he tries to save himself from the onslaught of blows. “Are you feeling well?”

“Considering the circumstances, I could be worse.” He blocks one particular hard blow and swears he can feel his bone rattle inside his arm. Cassandra will be leaving again with the others on their way to the Western Approach, following Rylen’s group who had set off just a few days prior. They had reported no larger setbacks yet, and a more or less stable situation on the Imperial Highway.

“I spent days listening to the Inquisitor, Varric and Hawke complain about the weather,” Cassandra says, another slash coming quickly at Cullen. “They behaved as though the Free Marches never get rain.”

“Much less than Ferelden,” Cullen explains, remembering the smoldering heat of Kirkwall’s summers and the winters when not even snow had touched ground in the city. Even he had gotten tan there during the summer, a healthy colour that was now once again lost to Ferelden’s overcast skies and his body’s general failing status.

“They will complain about the desert much the same.” Cassandra grunts as Cullen takes a step forward in offense, crashing his shield against hers in the process and almost knocking her down in the grass. She spits in the grass and gives him a sign to stop. He lowers his sword and shield into the grass before setting down on a bench nearby.

“The Inquisitor,” Cassandra says after a while, fidgeting where she stands and avoiding his gaze. “She asks a lot about you. Is there something going on?”

Cullen tries not to let any emotion show on his face as he looks up at her. “I have given her no cause to believe so.”

Cassandra grunts again, then rolls her eyes. “A woman’s affections are not to be toyed with, Cullen,” she says, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Cullen had no idea that the topic was that dear and important to her heart, and he raises his hands in defense.

“I’ve got enough on my plate with the Inquisition and myself, Cassandra,” he justifies himself, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “A relationship would just complicate matters more. I don’t owe her my affections.”

“You are too hard on yourself.” He watches as Cassandra throws down her gear next to his, brushing some mud off her breeches before taking off her gloves and throwing them down as well. “It would be quite romantic, to find love in a situation like this. Maybe it’s just my bleeding heart.”

“You, a romantic?” Cullen asks, then he chuckles. 

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Why don’t you go looking for a strapping young man yourself?” He raises an eyebrow, grinning mischievously at Cassandra. “I’m sure there are enough potential candidates at Skyhold.”

“Makler, please not,” Cassandra groans, letting herself fall onto the bench next to him. “I fear I am just as hopeless in these things as you.”

They are quiet for a while, listening to the soft breeze rustle leaves in a tree above them. The days have already gotten longer and the temperature is steadily rising, an unusually warm spring for the Frostback Mountains on their doorstep. Cullen wonders if the ancient magic surrounding Skyhold had anything to do with their luck.

“I have only loved one person in my life,” Cassandra continues after a short while, her voice calm and quiet. “A mage, if you would believe it.”

Cullen swallows hard, keeping his eyes out front. “I can believe it very well,” he says after a few seconds. He grabs the flask of water they had brought with them to their training, uncorking it and taking a big swig before handing it over to Cassandra. “I have as well. Maybe even more than once.” He laughs at himself. “Just our luck, I guess.”

“Locked in every day with a group of people you’re constantly told not to get close with - it screams for the plot of a romance novel.”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t really that romantic. Not much happened with the first,” - he’s lying through his teeth, though he almost believes his lies himself at his point, not being able to differentiate between the dreams and the past - “the second-” he hesitates, not knowing how much he can say before Cassandra would be able to put the pieces together herself. 

She takes note of his pause. “Anything you tell me is strictly confidential,” she offers, holding out her hand. “I pinky-swear.”

Cullen laughs, looking at her outstretched finger. “I don’t think I have done a pinky-swear since I was a child.” He wraps his pinky around hers, and they shake on it.

“She was an apostate. Well,  _ is _ , though that word doesn’t mean much anymore.” He offers breadcrumbs, though he believes the connection is already undeniable. She knows how closely he had worked together with Hawke - he’d been one of the first people she had interrogated in Kirkwall on her mission to find the Champion. “We weren’t right for each other.”

“The age old dilemma of duty before love. This is why I’d much rather watch you fall in love than do it myself. It’s just such a hassle.” She hands the flask back to him, then she blows air out of her nose in lieu of a laugh. “I won’t make you the trouble of trying to guess who your apostate was.”

“And I am very grateful for your tact. As for Evelyn...” he trails off, looking up into the leaves above him. “I fear she does not quite see me for who I am.”

“I think she would surprise you, if you would let her.”

They leave it at that, picking up their gear for cleaning and maintenance before bidding their farewells. He feels lighter after their talk, as if a burden previously held up by only him was now partly shared between him and Cassandra. He mentally scolds himself for being so sappy.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s the same scene as before, Cullen watching the group of six riders set off through the gates of Skyhold. Hawke had said her goodbyes the night before, sprawled out on his bed with a carved dalish pipe in her hand. He had rolled his eyes at her, reminding her she was to set off once again the following morning, and this time at least she had heeded his warning. 

There is the sense of loss again when the gates close behind them, and Cullen quickly turns away towards the stables before someone sees him staring. He goes to check on the mare in the back, but Dennet has taken her out with the older horses. Uncertain what to do next, he slowly makes his way throughout Skyhold into the gardens and to the Chantry, figuring it would help him clear his head.

As he looks up at the statute of Andraste, it fails to fill him with the deep sense of wonder and respect it has in the past. He closes his eyes and listens, as if expecting to hear someone’s voice, guiding him in his steps forward. All he hears is a fly thwacking against the stained glass window to his right in a desperate attempt to break free, over and over, undeterred from the previous failed attempts. 

He chuckles and looks back up at Andraste’s stone face. A fitting lesson to be taught to him. He opens the window before leaving for his tower.

  
  


*

  
  


It seems like nothing happens for weeks, and then all comes crashing in for them. They have to move out to Adamant the moment Hawke and Loghain arrive back at Skyhold, the Inquisitor and her companions holding the strategic position of Griffon Wing Keep and waiting for their army to arrive. They would regroup there before setting off the short distance to Adamant Fortress. He’d go with them, back into battle, the first time since lifting his sword defending Haven. 

There is no time for chess games anymore, and even Hawke doesn’t sneak into his office late at night anymore. He is not hurt nor disappointed, completely aware that the situation surrounding them is much more important than anything going on between them. So he sees her in the war room, together with Loghain, and they plan their best way against one of the strongest fighting forces in Thedas. 

He’ll have quite the résumé once this all is over, he muses.

Mother Giselle leads the Chant that evening before supper. Cullen is crammed into the last row in the little Chantry in the Skyhold gardens, together with the other most faithful, Sisters, Brothers and Templars his companions as they repeat the words burned into their minds while in training, his mouth forming around hymns praising the maker when they raise their voices in song. There hadn’t been that much singing in the fereldan services he had attended as a child and he attributes the artistry to Mother Giselle's orlesian background. 

Two rows before him he can see Vivienne raising her head to the heavens, projecting her voice while he sings quietly to himself, mostly just mouthing the words. Usually he and Cassandra attend together, and he misses her assuring presence next to him any time she is out in the field with the Inquisitor. 

_ The Light shall lead her safely _

_ Through the paths of this world, and into the next. _

_ For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. _

_ As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, _

_ She should see fire and go towards Light. _

_ The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, _

_ And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker _

_ Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. _

Let them all come back in one piece, he quietly prays to himself.

*

  
  


The travel to the Western Approach will take them weeks, and they’re leaving a skeleton crew back at Skyhold. Leliana will stay back together with the civilians and Josephine, while Cullen is leading at the very beginning of their seemingly endless stream of soldiers. He knows they had grown exponentially in the last few months, but nothing could have prepared his eyes for the sheer size of the army in front of him, decked out in their best gear.

He’s never quite felt this proud leading the Templars into battle.

Hawke and he sneak glances here and there, on horseback and when they camp. It is a huge logistics effort to move an army that size, and it’s the first expedition since their relocation from Haven. There is excitement in the crowd, he can feel it. It also means that free time is nonexistent, and hiding a tryst behind a tree an impossible undertaking. It is a war camp, and there are spotters everywhere, with no corner left unwatched.

As tempting as it might seem to steal her away and work out his rising excitement for battle on her, he is not stupid enough to let it all come crashing down because of a moment of weakness. He  _ looks  _ though, more often than he’s done before, yearns for her touch at night and would wish she would break that invisible barrier of professionalism once again. He feels like a teenager, full of hormones and thirst for action, and he directs those feelings into his work, holding a rousing speech for his men just before entering the territory of the Western Approach.

Griffon Wing Keep awaits them.

  
  


*

  
  


“To tomorrow,” the Inquisitor proposes, holding up her cup, “to you,” she adds, pushing it into Cullen’s hand.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” he says, gently directing her hand away. A last strategy meeting, at least it had started out like that. The other’s had left one after the other, leaving Cullen and Evelyn alone in his small quarters in Griffon Wing Keep. Most of the army is camped outside, the castle barely big enough to fit the permanent residents. It is mostly a strategic forwarding position, but Rylen has done good work here.

“Isn’t it customary for soldiers to drink before running head first into battle?” Evelyn asks, herself taking a long swig of the deep red wine. 

“I think our casualties would be a lot higher if it were,” Cullen laughs. He’s tired, and his body aches from being on horseback for so long but they’re moving out tomorrow, and he’s wired on adrenaline. “They know I would not be amused if I found the lot hungover tomorrow.”

“Don’t want a kick in the arse from the Commander,” Evelyn agrees. “They’re scared of you.”

“I like to believe it is respect, not fear, what they feel towards me.”

“Sometimes, those two go hand in hand,” she notes, though Cullen is inclined to disagree. He decides not to challenge her tonight.

“How are you liking the Approach?” he asks instead, genuinely curious for her thoughts. “You’ve spent quite some time out here.

“It’s big, dry, and very windy.” Evelyn shakes her head. “That’s why I like to stay inside the castle walls. And-” she stops and chuckles. “I’ve gotten aquaintanced with Rylen in the mean time.” 

“Rylen?” He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow when he finds her grinning at him coyly. It’s just like her, to rub this under his nose, to go after one of his best lieutenants, and Cullen wonders for a second if she had done it for her own pleasure, or just to get under his skin. He decides to humour her. “I guess the men of Starkhaven do have a reputation for these sorts of things.” 

Evelyn laughs, throwing her head back and sighing before letting herself fall back into the  cushions of her armchair. She crossing one leg over the other and licks her lips, daring him to  ask for more details. Cullen can feel blood travel down towards his groin, and his tongue  instinctively darts out to mirror Evelyn’s. His are chapped, but hers looks soft and inviting. 

“I never took note of him back at Skyhold,” she offers when he doesn’t pry. “You never introduced us properly.” 

“He was at some meetings, though he mostly kept to the logistics side of our forces. You must have not looked out for him.” 

“Are you suggesting that I had my eyes on someone else?” Evelyn asks, her eyes narrowing in at him, but her grin growing wider. Her cheeks are flushed, her skin tan from living in the Approach for a few weeks. Even in the dingy light of his quarters she still manages to look regal.

Cullen grins and looks into the opposite corner of the room, his face turned away from Evelyn. He’s not about to start playing her games now, and he’s not too interested in hearing about her nightly activities with Rylen, though he knows she must be dying to tell him further details. “Eyes for one former Templar is a coincidence, but two? That’s a pattern, Inquisitor,” he says instead, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Not all of us can be blessed with good taste.” 

He bellows out a laugh, then reaches over the table between them to grab the wine glass out of her hand, finishing it and holding the bottle out of her reach as she makes motions to refill it. She groans quietly, stretching in her chair, but gives up on chasing after the wine. “You’re no fun.”

“Someone has to make sure we’re all behaving like adults here,” Cullen replies, raising an eyebrow. “Believe me, I hate having to be the grown-up in every situation as well.” 

Evelyn makes a soft sound, and Cullen looks up to see her smiling down softly at her hands. Slender, but strong fingers, he knows - holding a staff in battle was just as demanding as slashing a sword. She would like to put them on him, he knows as well.

“I should get to bed,” Evelyn says quietly after a few seconds, getting up from her chair. Cullen gets up as well, and they walk side by side to the door leading out of his room, stopping in front of it to turn towards each other. She’s almost as tall as him in her boots, her head so close to his that he can smell her hair.

“Good night, Cullen.” Evelyn reaches up to straighten the collar of his shirt, her fingers lingering there for just a second before pulling them back. “You should show me your fun side, some time.”

Cullen swallows tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, his skin prickling where moments before Evelyn’s fingers had tickled over it. “If I remember correctly I still owe you a game of chess in your quarters.”

“ _ Good night _ , Cullen,” Evelyn repeats, stepping away from him and pulling the door closed behind her.

Cullen lets out a held breath when he’s sure she won’t hear him anymore, staring down at his crotch where his erection is visible through the thin, tan coloured breeches he’s wearing. He shakes his head and reaches down to right himself, stopping with his hands down his trousers and his eyes closed. He’s not above getting the job done himself, but he’s not sure he could look into the Inquisitor’s eyes the following morning.

A soft knock on his door rips him from his moral dilemma. He opens the door, expecting Evelyn to have forgotten something, but instead he is looking down into blue eyes on a boyish face, Hawke’s lips slightly parted as she’s just about to say something. 

Cullen quickly pulls her into the room, sticking his head outside to make sure no one had seen her creep to his room. “Don’t worry,” Hawke quips beside him, “I made sure she was gone before knocking.”

He groans and turns around towards her, pushing her back against the door, careful to make sure her head doesn’t hit the wood behind her. Equal parts annoyed at her appearance and desperate for someone’s touch, he presses herself against her, sucking on her neck as he grinds his hips forward. Hawke hums.

“You two spent so long in here, I was sure she wouldn’t come out till morning…” Hawke whispers, her hands coming to neck and pulling at his hair. “What did she  _ do  _ to you?”

“None of your concern,” he answers, his hands running down over Hawke’s arms and sides, coming to rest on her bottoms. He opens them swiftly, pushing down her breeches over her ass before letting his fingers plunge beneath her smallclothes. They both moan as his fingers find her clit, stroking over it softly before he lets the tip of his finger slip inside her.

“It’s not nice, what you’re doing,” she says, spreading her legs further for him and pushing down the last of the fabric, “leading her on like that.”

“Weren’t  _ you  _ the one sleeping with all your friends in Kirkwall?” he whispers in her ear after turning her around, pressing her chest against the door and pulling her hips back towards him.

“Not all,” she sighs when she feels him slip down his own bottoms and step behind her, “just most, and never at the same time.”

He puts his hand on her mouth and kisses her neck.

  
  


*

  
  


Adamant is a blood bath from beginning to end, but it’s an old fortress, and they have multiple trebuchets They make work of the old stone in less than half a day. There are some casualties, but Cullen had mentally prepared for more losses, and in the end he is satisfied with what they’ve accomplished.

Loghain is dead, but the Inquisitor and Hawke had made it back unscathed from a brush with certain death, and they even avoided that blasted dragon again. The Inquisitor speaks to the Grey Wardens in the courtyard, and Cullen is sure several people are scrambling for quill and parchment to write her words down for the history books.

They will be using words like strength, beauty, mercy,  _ holy. _

He’ll read it later, but for now his eyes searching the crowd for short black hair, finding it sat next and slung around a dwarf in an embrace that rivaled the one Mia had given him the day he had left for Templar training. He wonders if he’ll ever find a friend like Hawke has in Varric, someone he’d be willing to walk to the ends of the earth for. 

It seems ludicrous to him now, but then again, he would like to be surprised by the universe.

  
  


*

  
  


The trip home feels surreal, as if he’d been packed in wax and can neither see nor hear his surroundings. A fog in his mind, a fog on the road when they cross back into Ferelden, rain hitting down almost the instant they are crossing the border back into the Frostback Mountains. For a second he finds himself wishing for Kirkwall's weather, but he pushes the thought away as soon as it comes. Lest Cassandra think less of him.

He rides as the head of their pilgrimage again, next to Evelyn, a triumphant return. They get to know each other and steal glances when they are not talking. Dirtied from fighting in a siege and travelling on the road, she still looks beautiful, but maybe not untouchable anymore.

Varric catches him on his way back to his office that evening, his arms full of new reports from Leliana. He fetches one of the servants to take them off him and bring them to his tower, then reluctantly sits down next to Varric in front of the fireplace.

“Weird shit, the fade and all,” he offers, shaking his head at the memory. 

“I do not envy your trip there,” Cullen offers.

“Hawke’s on her way to Weisshaupt Fortress right now, I thought you might like to know. She uh-” he laughs, “she told me to tell you to, and I quote, to ‘take your head out of your ass and look forward for once.’” 

“Sounds like her,” Cullen replies dryly. “She’s always had such a way with words.”

Varric turns to him, a pained expression on his face, and Cullen knows he doesn’t want to say the next words that leave his mouth.

“Hey, I don’t know what exactly was going on between you two, and frankly, I’m not sure I even want to know more, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. It’s Hawke, after all.” Varric shrugs. 

And maybe that’s all that’s left to say about Hawke between them, and Cullen wouldn’t be upset if it were. She’ll be fine. She’s always been fine. Even when others in the same situation would  _ definitely  _ not have been  _ fine _ , she came out of everything relatively unscathed and sane. 

“The Warden’s will not be prepared for her,” Cullen concurs, biting his cheek. 

He’s sure he’s not heard the last of her.

**Author's Note:**

> please consider leaving a kudos or comment if you liked this story! it makes me happy :)
> 
> for further suffering: listen to the new album "the last exit" by still corners. particularly title track and bad town xoxo


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